The battle was over.
But the real struggle had just begun.
The air was thick with the stench of burned flesh and acid, a sickening mix of death and corruption. The once-barren rocky field was now littered with bodies, some whole, others in pieces, their armor eaten away by the Bone Devil's ichor.
The surviving warriors moved through the battlefield with grim determination, retrieving the fallen, checking for any who still clung to life. Some found comrades who could be saved, dragging them toward the makeshift medical station being set up near the transport carts.
Others…
Only found corpses.
Kalem walked among the dead, his bloodied spear resting against his shoulder. He bent down, inspecting a severed arm that had been partially melted, the wound still hissing as the acidic ichor ate away at the flesh.
"The flesh is still melting," Kalem muttered, narrowing his eyes as he turned the limb over, studying the damage.
Then—
A hard slap knocked it from his hands.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Garron hissed, stepping between Kalem and the corpse. He lowered his voice, his tone sharp. "I knew I shouldn't have let you in this."
Kalem blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Garron's eyes bore into him. "Do you think I'm blind? I know those eyes." He jabbed a finger at Kalem's face. "You're treating this like an analysis."
Kalem's lips pressed into a thin line. "And what about it?"
"They're dead, Kalem." Garron's voice hardened. "I know you love your little observations, but this isn't right. These were people. Not test subjects."
Kalem crossed his arms, his gaze remaining steady. "Understanding how the ichor interacts with flesh could be useful for future encounters. It's not disrespect. It's practicality."
Garron gritted his teeth. "Practicality?" He gestured around them. "These were your comrades. Their bodies still warm, and you're standing here, studying them like they're training dummies!"
Kalem remained silent.
To him, learning from the dead was the best way to ensure fewer deaths in the future.
Garron didn't understand that.
And maybe he never would.
Their argument was starting to draw attention from the others, some warriors casting uneasy glances their way.
Then—
A sharp voice cut through the tension.
"Are you trying to make another weakling like you, Garron?"
Both men turned.
A warrior clad in scarred blackened armor approached, her short-cropped silver hair matted with blood and dust. She was older, but her body was still lean with muscle, her presence commanding immediate respect.
Kalem knew her name.
Serka. A veteran, one of the hardest fighters in the deployment, known for her brutal efficiency in battle.
She looked at Garron with a mixture of amusement and scorn.
"Still preaching your soft-hearted nonsense?" she said, stepping over a corpse without a second glance. "No wonder the rookies under your watch have the highest mortality rate."
Garron's fists clenched at his sides.
"Shut your mouth, Serka."
She chuckled, crossing her arms. "Or what? You gonna swing at me? You're barely holding yourself together."
Kalem watched, intrigued. There was history here.
"Kalem's right to analyze the battlefield. That's what a survivor does." Serka tilted her head, her sharp eyes locking onto him. "You've got the right mindset, kid. People die. You make sure their deaths mean something."
Garron took a step forward. "They mean something because they fought, not because we pick apart their bodies like vultures."
Serka laughed. "And what's left after they fought, Garron? More dead kids? More regret? You think sentiment is going to keep us alive?"
She turned her gaze back to Kalem. "I like you. You fight smart. Not like him." She flicked a glance toward Garron. "He still thinks dying with honor is worth more than living to fight again."
Kalem didn't respond immediately.
Serka's words made sense.
Garron's emotions made sense, too.
But which one was right?
The silence stretched.
Finally, Varik's voice broke through the still air.
"Enough."
The commander stood atop a fallen boulder, his face set in a deep scowl. "We've lost too many today. If you've got energy to argue, use it to dig graves."
Serka rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Garron let out a slow breath and turned away.
Kalem simply watched them both, filing their words away.
The task of body collection continued.
The dead were lined up, their weapons placed beside them in a final show of respect. A mass funeral pyre was already being prepared—there was no taking them back to the city. The abyssal corruption made it too risky.
Kalem noticed some of the soldiers hesitating as they laid down the bodies.
Not because of grief.
But because of what Serka had said.
There was a growing divide in Gehenna.
The old ways—self-sacrifice, honor in death, standing your ground until the end—were starting to be challenged. Warriors like Serka valued survival over nobility.
And warriors like Garron fought to hold onto the traditions of the past.
Kalem?
Kalem just wanted to live long enough to keep fighting.
He stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching the setting sun cast long shadows over the dead.
He knew one thing for certain.
This wouldn't be the last time Gehenna's warriors clashed—not just with the abyss, but with each other.